The Anthropologist at the Adolescent Social Event
by inopportune
Summary: Director Cullen ropes Agent Booth into some overtime. All's fair in partnership and war, so Booth drags Dr. Brennan along.
1. Absolutely Not

**Notes: **This was written purely for my own entertainment. I have no connection to FOX or any of its subsidiaries.

This was also written because, being a teenage girl, I have the mind of one. So sue me. (Or don't; my mom's not done with law school yet.)

* * *

Special Agent Seeley Booth's cell phone rang the moment he swiped his card on his way up the stairs to the Jeffersonian Medico-Legal Lab. 

"Booth," he said quickly.

"You want me to do _what_?!"

He turned around immediately and walked swiftly back down the stairs. He wasn't sure where he was going, but he knew he couldn't have the kind of loud, angry conversation he was preparing for in front of all the Squints.

"No, absolutely not."

Great. Just when it looked like things couldn't get worse he heard the click, click of a well-heeled forensic anthropologist heading his way.

"Booth? Booth?"

He ignored her and kept walking. It was a dumb idea and had never worked in the past, but maybe this time…

No such luck. Instead of giving up and turning back to go work on whatever it was she was supposed to be working on, she began tugging on his sleeve.

"God, you're worse than Parker," he said irritably.

"No, not you, sir. I was speaking to a child."

She took her hand away from his arm. And began making grabs for his phone.

"I am _not_ a child! Tell whoever it is that I am not a child," she demanded.

He covered the mouthpiece of his phone with one hand.

"What, Bones? This has better be important."

"I just want to know what's going on."

Booth sighed and readjusted his phone, giving the 'ignore' tactic one more chance to prove itself.

"No, yeah, I get it. But why _me_? Can't you have Andrews do that kind of thing? He looks great in a tux."

"Booth, why are you talking about formal wear?"

Booth decided that best defense was a good offense. He grabbed Brennan by the elbow and swung her into a seat. In his distraction he had marched right in to Bones' office. The momentum of his arm caused her to topple over on the sofa. She sat up looking even more disgruntled, if that were possible.

"That was not necessary," she huffed. "And why are you sitting at my desk?"

"Bones," he said through gritted teeth, "I am having a conversation with my immediate superior at the FBI. Will you please be quiet for thirty seconds?"

"Fine." She picked a book up off the table and began flipping through it.

It was too late. All the interruptions had cost him all leverage in the argument. Groaning, he snapped the phone shut and let his head fall into his hands.

"Don't worry, Booth," came Bones' voice from the couch, "you look very nice in a tuxedo."

* * *

"No," said Dr. Temperance Brennan, "absolutely not." 

Through the window of her apartment she could see the torrential downpour outside. Late May in the capital tended to be soggy, but this was above and beyond the call. The huge puddles on the sidewalk had forced a reschedule of the regular Tuesday evening run. Instead, she was taking advantage of being stuck inside to do some basic household chores. Her bed was covered in a large pile of clothing.

"Booth, are you _insane_? It's pouring rain!"

She tucked her cell phone into her shoulder and shook out a cotton shirt.

"Also, I'm doing laundry for the first time in weeks and- "

There was muffled laughter on the other line and then a _highly _inappropriate comment. The shirt fell from her hands.

"Booth, are you _drunk_?"

* * *

He was. He was very drunk. He'd been about to tell Bones this but she'd hung up before he could get "inebriated" to come out right. Ten minutes and another couple sips of beer later he was still trying. 

"In.. oooh-briated," he said to Sid with a wide grin. Instead of looking as impressed as he should've, Sid took the opportunity to cut him off.

"That was…" The words were coming more slowly than usual.

"Entirely justified?" finished an amused voice.

"I was going to say 'mean and unfair,' but hi, Bones!" He smiled at her. He put both elbows on the bar and leaned towards his favorite squint. "You're my favorite squint," he said out loud.

"That's nice of you to say," she replied cautiously. Even through the fog of alcohol he could tell she was trying to figure out what to do with this information. "Why?"

"See, now I can't tell you. You're just fishing for compliments." He poked her nose. It seemed appropriate for some reason.

"I don't know what that means. Why is your hand still on my nose?"

He poked it again and laughed goofily.

"Oh, I understand. It's because you're drunk. Alcohol depresses the central nervous system, causing mild euphoria and loss of coordination. Moderate doses will provoke some individuals to become less inhibited in speech and more likely to seek physical contact. You are reacting to both the alcohol content in your system and the sensation of comfort with your surroundings. It is an entirely understandable response. "

Booth stared at her blankly, giving her nose a few comforting pats.

"All the same," continued the good doctor, entirely unruffled, "I would appreciate it if you would stop poking me."

Reluctantly, he pulled his hand away.

"You know what your problem is, Bones?"

"High levels of intelligence, low levels of blood alcohol?"

"You _think_ too much."

"Yeah," agreed Bones cheerfully, "I've been told that before. Often by people willing to pay large sums of money to make use of this painful handicap." She smirked, waving off Sid's offer of a martini.

God, she was annoying.

"Hey, Bones?"

She stopped fiddling with her chunky Stone Age necklace and looked up to meet his eyes.

"Yeah?"

"WillyougotoPromwithme?"

"What?"

"Will you go to Prom with me?"

"What?" For someone with such a large vocabulary Bones was certainly selling herself short tonight. It wasn't that hard of a question. Sheesh. He decided hand gestures were in order.

"Will you-." He prodded her hand. "Go to-." He walked his fingers up her arm. "Prom-." He flapped his hands. "With me?" He poked his own chest. A little too hard. Ow.

She was still staring at him. This was worse than that time he'd tried to ask Lucy Fisher to Homecoming in 11th grade.

"Please?" He added as an afterthought.

Instead of leaping up and smothering him with kisses like any sane person would in response to this generous offer, Bones was looking at him like he was the kneecap of a puzzling corpse. For all her faults, Lucy Fisher had never regarded him as part of the lower leg.

"Fascinating," Dr. Brennan murmured to herself. "I have never heard of alcohol causing flashbacks. Are you taking any prescription medications?"

"No." If he'd known she was going to make this much of a fuss, he wouldn't have bothered asking. "And I'm not having flashbacks. I want you to go to Prom with me."

"Booth, you will excuse me if I am more than a little confused. High school was over more than ten years ago. As far as I am aware, the ritual of Prom Night is strictly confined to the adolescent years."

"Tell that to Cullen."

"The Director of the FBI wants you to go to Prom?" Booth nodded. "With him?" It was an oddly soothing movement. His head went up, down, up, down. But Bones didn't look soothed. She looked deeply concerned. "Is he mentally unstable? I realize Amy's condition must be an additional strain to what is already a high-stress position, but are you sure he's functional? Is he developing any other unhealthy coping mechanisms? Has he shown any symptoms of drug use?"

Up, down, up, down. It was like floating in the ocean. Bones' expression grew more and more pained. Why was she making that face? He reached out to touch her but she slapped his hand away distractedly.

"Booth, are you even listening to me?"

"Nnn… Not really," he admitted.

* * *

"And then he just passed out," explained Brennan. 

"And you're sure you're not leaving out all the hot, drunken sex?" At Dr. Brennan's fierce look, Angela reconsidered her question. "No, I guess there wouldn't be any, would there? Another FBI guy's sudden sprint towards the rainbow aisle isn't exactly a steamy conversation topic. Though it's Booth, so, really, who needs conversation?"

"Sid had to help me take him home." Seeing the glint in her friend's eyes, Brennan clarified. "To his place, where I was able to drag him to his sofa, after which he recovered enough to tell me to go away."

Angela looked thoughtful.

"And you have no idea what could have turned Agent Straight Edge into a Tuesday night binge drinker?"

"Assuming it wasn't Director Cullen's advances, no."

"Hmm. Well, I'll tell you one thing we do know for sure. He's going to have one hell of a hangover this morning."

"Who's going to have a hangover?" Booth appeared in the doorway, dressed in his usual FBI-approved suit and looking for all the world as if he'd spent the previous night eating Grape-Nuts and doing one-handed pushups.

"No one, apparently," said Brennan bemusedly.

"Oh, they probably teach this kind of thing at Quanitco." Angela grabbed a folder from Brennan's desk. "I'll have a face for you by the end of the day. You two, play nice."

Booth's smile was a little too sweet. Once Angela was out the door, Bones turned back to her computer. Realizing that he would need to work to get her attention, Booth threw himself dramatically onto her couch.

"Booth," said Bones, not looking up, "if you break that couch, I expect you to pay for it."

"It's fine, Bones. See?" He sat up and bounced in place. Something creaked ominously. Booth stood up quickly and moved to the chair in front of Brennan's desk.

"So, did you think about my offer?"

"Which one?"

"There was more than one?"

"When I first arrived, you asked me to go to a high school dance. Half an hour later, you offered me a million dollars if I promised never to speak to you again. I had no idea you had such a large amount of disposable income." She still appeared to be concentrating entirely on her computer screen, but he could see the corner of her mouth twitching.

He sighed. "But you'll do it, right?"

"Not talk to you? Sure. When can we start?"

"Very funny. This is the reason there's no Anthropology Comedy Hour on cable."

She went back to ignoring him.

"C'mon, Bones. Don't make me beg here."

Silence.

"Will you _please_ come to Luisa's stupid Prom and distract me so I don't do something that gets me fired? You can be as socially crippled as you want. You can make commentaries on the anthropological significance of Snow Patrol. I really don't care. Just be there."

Finally, _finally_, she looked up. In his desperation, he'd pulled out all the stops. He could tell she was deciding what to argue about first. He had his money on 'social cripple.' On the off-chance that Bones was willing to take this out of the purely verbal he scooted his chair back. Just a little bit. She tended to surprise him.

"I thought you were going with Director Cullen."

Yeah, that was a surprise.

"What?!"

"Last night," she explained. "You said Director Cullen was going to take you to Prom. At the time, I assumed it was a drunken fantasy, but your pupils are no longer dilated and you show all indications of being completely sober." He stared at her blankly for a moment.

"Okay, Bones?"

"Yes?" She'd gone back to clacking away at her keyboard.

"How's about we start again from the beginning. I am going to pick you up at your apartment at five. We are going to accompany Director Cullen's _daughter_ first to dinner and then to her high school Prom. Iam going to ensure her safety. You are going to be wildly inappropriate but beautifully dressed. You are going to work very hard to accomplish the nearly impossible task of annoying me more than Luisa Cullen."

Bones' look of indignation was predictable. As was her move to throw a pencil at him. He dodged it and continued.

"Some say it couldn't be done, but I have faith in you, Bones." Booth clasped both hands across his heart. "You distract me from Luisa and instead of throttling my boss' eldest daughter, I spend the night arguing with you. In this way, by the next morning I might still have a job."

"I don't understand. Why does Cullen need you there? You're not a bodyguard, you're a civil servant."

"Try telling _him_ that. He says my job is on the rocks already due to a certain _incident_-"

"That was not my fault, Booth. I was well within my rights to-"

Booth smiled at her indignant tone.

"It doesn't matter, Bones. This is the FBI. He says jump, we say 'how high?'"

"Why would he ask you to do that? It seems like a stupid exercise."

Booth stood up from his chair and headed toward the door.

"What I'm saying, Bones, is that I don't have much of a choice in the matter. And if you care about me even an eentsy-weentsy bit – " He held up two fingers to demonstrate. "You'll realize you don't either."

* * *

**End note: **Just because this is my first post on here doesn't mean I don't know what goes in this spot. How do you feel about commenting on this story so far? Pretty good, right? Yeah, that's what I thought. 


	2. Idle Fantasy

**Note: **Sorry folks, this one is ridiculously short. My computer basically blew up a few days ago (if you care, the motherboard short-circuited), so I've been fighting for time on my mother's laptop.  
I ended up splitting this chapter into two pieces so I could get _something_ posted at a reasonable time - sort of like when Amazon offers to split your packages into separate shippings. Yes, there is a case. Yes, it vill all soon beekum cleeyah.

* * *

Dr. Temperance Brennan sometimes wondered what her life would be like if Angela Montenegro had not been an only child. It was merely idle speculation – useless hypothesizing that served no greater purpose - but Brennan felt like she deserved a little daydream at this point. 

Perhaps, she mused, if Angela had had a younger sister she might have outgrown her tendency to treat her friends like dress-up dolls.

Brennan was shocked out of her reverie by a flash of garish pink.

"Ange, no."

"Actually, I'm not serious about this one. I was just trying to get your attention. You're drifting off." Angela returned to sorting through the racks. Brennan returned to the fantasy world in which she _wasn't_ trapped in a store full of tasteless, mass-produced polyester that disguised itself as 'clothing.' This wasn't clothing. This was a prime example of the perversion of traditional celebration to fuel further commercialization and objectification of women.

"Hey, what about this one?"

"Ange, that's the same dress you showed me a minute ago."

"No, it's not. I promise. That one was hideous. This one is…"

"Also hideous. Even if you ignore its crude design, it was obviously made very poorly, probably in China, by people who function as modern-day serfs. Ethical questions aside, sacrificing quality in the name of reducing expense has never benefited an individual or a civilization." Brennan paused in her tirade to pry the dress out of her friend's hand and place it back on the rack. "Additionally, it is really, very ugly, and I have quite enough dresses already. Now can we_ please_ go find Booth and get out of here?"

Angela sighed. It had been insane to think that she could get Brennan out on a real, girly shopping trip. Of course, the location was not ideal. Bren was right about one thing – this store was no designer boutique. Not for the first time, Angela wondered what it would have been like if she had met the young Temperance in high school. They would, she thought, have become best friends. She could have taken 'Tempe' prom dress shopping for real, instead of dragging her off to a shoddy mall chain while Booth interrogated a homicide suspect.

With one last lingering look at the clothing racks, Angela turned and followed her friend out of the store.

Booth sat waiting for them on a wooden bench. As Brennan approached, he stood up. Angela observed their conversation. It was quick and to the point but she was sure she could feel the crackling of their usual tension beneath the mundane words. Then again, as Hodgins sometimes said, Angela often saw sexual chemistry between two sofa cushions.

"So, did he do it?"

"No. His story checks out."

"Good. Let's go."

Booth and Brennan began walking unnecessarily quickly toward the exit. Angela had to struggle to keep up.

"Guys, slow down," she pleaded.

Booth laughed.

"Getting out of shape, Angela? Too much time at the lab?"

"No." But he did have a point. Spending time with Hodgins _was_ cutting in to her gym time. On the other hand, those evenings weren't exactly inactive. Last night had been particularly…

"Earth to Angela," said Booth.

"Oh, right. What I was going to say is that you can't just race through a mall. You've got to take your time, scope the place out."

"You mean we should window buy?"

"What?" said Booth.

"Window _shop_, sweetie," said Angela. "And that's exactly what I meant."

"Sorry, no can do. We've got a busy day ahead. Lots of catching bad guys and maiming federal employees. I need Bones in top form."

"For the last time, that wasn't my fault!"

"Yeah, yeah. Ow, Bones! What did you do that for?"

Brennan just shrugged. Angela laughed. Having Booth around turned Brennan into a little kid in some ways. It was fun to watch.

By this time they had reached the doors. The FBI agent threw them open and ushered Brennan and Angela out into the sunlight.

* * *

**End note: **It would be silly and unfair to ask you to review after such a ridiculously short semi-chapter. However, I do get lots of ideas from my reviews and I very much appreciate them. If you're feeling charitable, you know what to do. 


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